Second Chance
by Darkover
Summary: Inspector Javert redeems himself in an unlooked-for way.


9

Title: "Second Chance"

Author: Darkover

Rating: K+, for mention of canonical attempted suicide

Disclaimer: The great French novelist Victor Hugo wrote "Les Miserables," not I, and he created Inspector Javert. Nor did I create the characters of Eustace Fargo or Judge Dredd. I am just borrowing them. The OC of the unnamed psi-tech is mine. This story is written for love, not for money, so please do not sue me.

Summary: Inspector Javert redeems himself in an unlooked-for way.

~ooo0ooo~

When Javert threw himself off the bridge, he did not die.

He did not even hit the water. He was in despair, for it had been revealed to him that the world he had lived in—the world he had always thought he understood, had always believed he knew exactly how it worked, the world he had always been so *sure* of—had been turned upside down and sideways. The law was what was right, no, _righteous, _and he was its servant. He had dedicated his life, his mind, his soul, his heart to it—yes, others would not have believed it, but he, Inspector Javert, did have a heart. But he had kept his heart firmly disciplined, for the law was of necessity a strict mistress, and he could not fail her. Not and call himself a true policeman. For that was what people did not understand; if Javert was harsh and unyielding in his application of the law to others, that was as nothing when it came to applying it to himself. He was a policeman. That meant he possessed great power, and great power must always be strictly controlled. He had heard all the sob stories, all the pleas for mercy, all the curses when he did not show it. Some of the stories may even have been true, but what was that to the law? If the law was rigid, it was also clear, and must be kept that way. Javert saw it as his duty to serve and to enforce the law, not to interpret or apply it according to his personal feelings or whims. As soon as a man did the latter, he betrayed the Law.

But one of the strongest of Javert's beliefs had been that men, once they had become criminals, did not change. Jean Valjean's strange mercy to him seemed more like a punishment. Why had Valjean not killed him? Javert could not understand it, and the more he turned it over in his mind, the more confused and anguished he became. If Valjean could change, could be a force for good, then he, Javert, had been wrong all along. And If he, Javert, was wrong about Valjean, what else was he wrong about? How many lives had he ruined in the name of the law? How many wrongdoers—_No! No! They were criminals, evil, all of them! When I did my duty, no matter what it cost me, I was purging evil from the world—_

But the thought continued to nag at the Inspector; if Valjean had done good, then he was not evil. And if Javert was wrong about him, had been wrong to pursue him all those years, then he, Javert, had done harm. Had done evil. The once clear, if monumentally rigid, code by which the Inspector had lived his life was now muddled beyond his comprehension. If the law was not the clear thing he had always trusted and believed it to be, then he could no longer serve it. Could no longer be a policeman….

_And if I can no longer be a policeman, I can do nothing. If I am no longer the servant of the law, what am I? Nothing. I am nothing…._

Javert leaned forward, and let gravity pull him toward the river and death. Or so he thought.

~ooo0ooo~

At first he thought he had been immersed in the river, for something encompassed him, and he could not breathe. A light stabbed his eyes. _Is this what it is like to die? I care not. It will be over in a moment. _

Then Javert was aware that he was not alone. There was another presence—not one that he could see, but he could sense—it seemed to surround him—and that he could hear. The Presence questioned him; _**Why do you wish to die? **_

_Because I can no longer serve the law. _

_**You are a policeman, then? **_

_I am. I was. But I have failed the law, and now I am nothing. _

_**No one is nothing. **_There was a momentary pause, and then; _**Who are you? What is your name? **_

Javert felt a flash of anger in the midst of his despair. He wanted to end his miserable life, why was he being interfered with? _Who are you?_

_**I am the Chief Judge. **_Again that tiny, almost infinitesimal pause. _**Your Judge, if you wish. **_

Again, Javert's despair receded ever so slightly as this time, he felt a tiny sense of wonder. The Presence had identified itself as the Chief Judge, as his Judge. Surely that meant this was the Voice of God. That was how Javert always conceptualized the Almighty; as the Great Judge, a stern and unyielding father figure that separated the righteous from the evil and unworthy. Now, he, Javert, was being judged. He felt somewhat calmer. This he understood. _I am…I was Javert. But now that is past. _

_**Because you failed in your duty to the law? **_

_Yes. _Javert actually felt a bit less despairing now. Mercy was of course too much to expect, but perhaps understanding was not. _Yes. _

_**Do you wish for another chance? **_

_I am not worthy. _This was no false humility; for an instant, recalling his failure, his confusion, and bewilderment, the despair washed over Javert again. _My old life is gone, and so it should be, for I failed, and now I am nothing. _

_**I told you, no one is nothing. You are not to say that again. **_For a moment, the sternness of the Voice echoed in Javert's mind, and the former Inspector was humbled. Before he could form any sort of reply, however, the Chief Judge was continuing; _**It is possible for you to serve the Law again. I need men such as you, to serve the Law in another time, another place, if you are willing. You can be a policeman again. **_

_**You can be a Judge.**_

Javert was speechless. He had been judged by the Almighty God, and not only had he not been found wanting, not only was he not to be condemned for his failure, he was going to be elevated.

_**You will serve the law again. You will *be* the law. **_

_Yes! YES!_

There was a hint of amusement in the voice of the Chief Judge, almost an indulgent chuckle. _**You said that your old life is past, and that is true. You must be retrained, begin a new life. So you will no longer be "Javert." I believe I shall call you "Joe," at least for now. **_

_Yes, Lord. _The Chief Judge could call him whatever He wished. _I shall live to serve you. _

_**Not me. **_The sternness was back in the Voice. _**You will serve the law. You will be the law. Now, come to me. **_

Javert obeyed, and instantly lost consciousness.

~ooo0ooo~

"Chief Judge? It appears the experiment has been successful." The psi-tech's tone of voice seemed to say, "at least my part of it has." Chief Judge Eustace Fargo ignored the man's tone. The psi-tech did not quite approve of the uses the Chief Judge was making of this new technology. Not that the approval of this, or any other technician, was required. Mega-City One needed new and dedicated judges, lots of them, fast. Judge Fargo had decided to combine the new technologies of both time-travel and psychic communication to go through times of historical upheaval, locate dedicated police officers, bring them here, and condition them to be the kind of police and judges necessary to serve the City.

"It has." Fargo was looking down at the man who had appeared in the retrieval slot of the electronic time-travel device, a man who now lay sleeping peacefully in that slot. The transfer from their time and place of origin always rendered them unconscious for a time. The psi-techs believed it was because the mental and physical shock of the upheaval from their times and places of origin was so great, the brain protected itself by going to sleep. Fargo did not care about their theories; he cared only that this new program for retrieving potential judges worked. He regarded the unconscious man with an appraising eye. Early nineteenth century France, or so the uniform seemed to indicate. The beard would have to be shaved off, of course; facial hair was forbidden, as it gave a criminal attacker something to seize hold of. The man's physical condition appeared good for his age, but at least some physical regeneration would be necessary. And of course a complete psychological and psychic evaluation would be done, although Fargo strongly suspected from his initial impressions of and conversation with the man that this was just the sort of person required for the job of a Judge in Mega-City. The man—"Joe"—would of course be given an entirely new and fictitious past, because all memories of his former life would of necessity be obliterated. That was the part that upset the psi-techies the most. Fargo might have felt a pang of conscience himself, had not the need for Judges been so great, and had he not always offered the men in question a choice.

Fargo gave a mental shrug. He certainly was not going to feel any guilt about this one's case. Joe, formerly Javert, had been about to commit suicide when Fargo snatched him away. The Department of Justice had to do something. There were never enough people who made good judges, and regardless of what the news media had reported to the general public, the cloning program had largely failed. Out loud, he said; "Well, call the psych boys, and tell them to get started on this one's case. For the time being, call him "Joe." We'll come up with a surname for him later. And remember, officially, we're still getting our new judges by means of cloning."

~ooo0ooo~

It took a total of fifteen years of conditioning and Academy training, but the new candidate saved from death did Chief Judge Eustace Fargo proud. He of course had no memory of his "failure," his old life, or that he had once been called "Javert," and the physical regeneration left him with the body of a twenty-year-old man. But his rigid sense of right and wrong stayed with him, harnessed to protect the innocent and punish the guilty, although this time it was at least leavened with a bit of discretion. He was given a new name, one that criminals were meant to fear, and a new title that gave him both great power and great responsibility. No one took that responsibility greater than he.

The day he graduated from the Academy, it was a slow news day, so a few reporters were lounging about outside the Hall of Justice as he stepped out into the sunshine of the City. He was dressed in his new armored uniform, his face concealed behind his helmet. One of the reporters, wanting only his name, called out; "Who are you?"

Clean-shaven chin outthrust, face unsmiling, he replied with what would become his trademark answer.

"I am Judge Dredd. I am the law."


End file.
